Object Of Desire: A Series Of Vignettes
by HappinessPursued
Summary: Erik always had eyes for Christine, but upon the arrival of the Opera Garnier's new patron, Raoul De Chagny, his world is turned completely inside out as he battles and eventually comes to terms with his blossoming obsession for the Vicomte. Erik is determined to to make Raoul his at any cost. Slash!
1. Fall

Some Author's notes:

This series is **slash, yaoi, mxm, **whatever you want to call it. It's two males in a homosexual relationship. If it's not your cuppa tea, please don't read it.

This is my first shot at writing PotO slash. It really just began as an exercise to help me understand how I wanted to portray the characters in my style of writing, but it sounded good so I figured I'd share. There's not enough Erik/Raoul here and it makes me sad.

My version of the Phantom is a hybrid. My base (and mental image) model for Erik is Andrew Lloyd Webber's Phantom, and I've fleshed him out with many personality traits and aspects of Leroux's Phantom. So, think about it as Musical!Erik universe with underlying Leroux!Erik traits. This is as much a character study as it is a psychoanalysis of Erik. Leroux!Erik is incredibly Bipolar, swinging between episodes of mania and depression constantly. He also shows many traits of a schizophrenic. Webber!Erik shows more symptoms of full blown psychosis. This is my attempt to balance the mental instabilities of the two Eriks together.

I very much imagine that the Erik in this story resembles Peter Jöback (But with Ramin's voice), and Raoul resembles Killian Donnelly (Both physically and vocally).

**Warnings:** This series is for Mature readers only. There's a lot of ideologically sensitive subjects in here that may not to appeal to everybody; suicidal tendencies, implied rape, murder, graphic displays of violence, explicit sex. These vignettes so far have come off as pretty tame, but I have a feeling things will escalate pretty quickly (as most of my writing tends to do).

((Some context related notes: A piano or organ's "Fall" is the wooden cover that lifts up and down over the keyboard to protect the keys, in case anyone isn't familiar with musician's jargon))

**Disclaimer:** I do not own "Phantom Of The Opera", Erik, Raoul De Chagny or anything of the like, and make no profit from this. If I did, the musical would have ended with Erik snatching away Raoul and getting married while Christine just sits in his lair and cries.

With all of that said, Enjoy

-Cat

* * *

((Fall))

When I became involved with him, I cannot recall.

Whether it is for the better or for the worse, I am unsure.

But it pains me greatly. I find myself pacing more, whispering incomprehensible utterances to an audience that I know only exists in my head. I break and destroy what I see fit even more now, even when I don't want to, and I've noticed an incredible increase in risky behaviour that threatens my very existence. I no longer care.  
When had this sudden fixation bloomed? I was fighting a losing battle, and I knew it.  
Prima Donna was pushed to the far recesses of my blackened mind. I no longer cared. She could have her life.  
The only life I wanted was his, and if wringing it out of him with my scarred hands gripped around his neck was what it took, then goddammit, I was ready.

I sat on the stool, breath shaky, head cradled in my hands as I hunched myself over the organ, both elbows resting neatly on top of the instrument's fall.

Nothing but empty sheet music tonight. Not even a chord. Only blotted black stains and angry pen scratches covered the music staff paper, obvious signs of the boiling frustration underneath my sullen exterior. I swiped my hand at the paper in frustration, crumpling the sheet between my fingers. I could feel a scream building in my throat.

Who was I? Where did I go?

I knew I was falling apart, I just refused to admit it.

Extinguishing the last lit candles perched atop the organ with a shallow breath, I retreated to my bed, jealous that I couldn't be snuffed out as easily as the flames.

I tangled myself in the sheets. It was the only solace I had.  
I buried my head into the pillow and lulled myself to sleep with soft sighs.


	2. Reach

2. Reach

* * *

Soon after his arrival, he too fell victim to my constant stalking. An unseen shadow, I would follow him, distant enough to not be seen, but close enough to unnerve him. I'm sure by the second or third week at my Opera House he was too well accustomed to the paranoid feeling of being watched. He was not often alone, but when he was, I could not help but notice when he would cast worried glances over his shoulder.

Upon the catwalks, I would track every one of his movements around the stage as he made conversation with the managers, Christine, or simply observed rehearsals. Between the walls I hid as I silently hunted him through my Opera's halls.

He was quite the specimen.  
For some reason, I felt that he was different from the rest of the former patrons that my opera house had the misfortune to experience.

Something in my chest swelled, surged. Since his arrival, I had been restless, unable to sleep, and often found myself fidgeting at the keyboard when I should have been composing. I was distracted, greatly so. I had no reason to be, and it was only after many sleepless nights I blamed it on the arrival of this fresh faced, inexperienced boy.

At first, I blamed it on anxiety. I worried for the well being of my Opera; too many foppish aristocrats and comtes paraded into my  
home with these grand visions of "their" Opera House while silently slipping generous numbers of francs under the table to the manager. I could not stand their type. I made it clear to them how _my_ opera house was to be run, and a patron's place was as far away from it as possible. The ones who interfered with hopes of changing things to their likings were soon forced to relinquish the title of "Patron" with some creative persuasion on my end. I often killed the ones who were the most boorish and insolent. I have little patience.

This Vicomte, this patron, was different, though.

I used my paranoia as an excuse to double the amount of time I spent trailing him.

The more I stalked, the more the attraction grew.  
Not a physical attraction (well, ever so slightly. He reminded me of a male Christine; so young, so helpless), but more of a burning curiosity. He radiated a light and airy atmosphere, he had the most generous laugh. The most admirable trait of his, though, was his complaince to my wishes. He followed my note down to every mark, and stayed a healthy length away from the managers unless they were discussing funds. Other than that, he was simply another admirer of music. He would spend lengths of time simply sitting and soaking in the rehearsals. I could see the pure joy that music brought to him explicitly in his expressions. Another admirer of the arts.

One day, as I observed him from the dark recesses of the catwalks, I made a striking comparison.

He reminded me of myself when I was young, before my life became a literal living hell.

Well, except for the attractive part. He was so blessed in the looks department.

It was then that I soon realised what was to blame for the surging and swelling in my chest. It threatened my resolve, gnawed at the edges of my already fraying sanity. I was volatile, extremely so, and I was actively seeking the most minor botch from either the new managers or the Opera singers so I could justify the need to send myself over the edge, to make my urges to kill without a thought self righteous in my own head. The accidents doubled in occurence as I sought to find the source of this searing pain that tortured me night and day.

Pained, I gripped the support rails of the catwalks. It was all I could do to keep myself from sinking to my knees and screaming. I was like an animal ensnared in a hunter's trap, and I was sorely tempted to chew off my own limbs just to escape.

It was tearing me apart, boring its way through my insides out, and all I could do was watch myself as I died a slow and painful death. I was becoming so broken, the thoughts of throwing myself in the lake and drowning myself only became stronger and came even more frequently, but it would be no use. I was already drowning at the bottom.

When I finally had it all worked in my mind, for the first time in years, I actually physically trembled. I found myself burying my face into my hands. My breathing quickened and was riddled with grief. I wished that I could plow, claw my way into my chest and wrench what I was feeling out of me.

I refused to believe it.

It was infatuation.


	3. Sostenuto Agitato

**Some author's notes**: First, thanks for the reviews and follows!

Secondly, I'll be leaving for the UK tomorrow on a month long holiday, which means updates to these vignettes will be slow. But, I'll be taking my laptop with me, so there still will be updates, and I will still write when time allows me to.

Anyhoo, I'm glad you guys are enjoying this nonsense as much as I'm enjoying writing it. Reviews, faves and follows keep me going, they're my lifeblood. Your feedback is awesome! I enjoy any comments you guys throw at me, whether it be critique or simply "I like it how you make Erik *insert adjectives here*!" I appreciate every one I get, even if they're only a couple!

Thank you, readers!

Also, more music Jargon: _Sostenuto Agitato_ is a term used to describe music that is supposed to be played very agitatedly, aggressively. It literally means "Sustained Agitation".

* * *

((Sostenuto Agitato))

* * *

It was like Christine all over again, but with a male.

I had no idea what to think.  
I had never fancied males, nor had a reason to. I had never really fancied anyone.  
As a matter of fact, I had never been so magnetised to anyone before Christine snuck her way into my life.  
Now, that same magnetisation drew me nearer and more frequently to the Vicomte like a moth to flame.

I had guessed what I was feeling to be infatuation, but the slightest uncertainty still remained and made sure I acknowledged its presence.

But he had piqued my interest. His tawny hair. His youthful face. Blue eyes.  
Every delicate motion, every soft spoken word only fanned the fires of obsession that had settled itself in the deepest recesses of my body.

His innocence was innocuous. It was the same quality that had first drawn me to Christine.

My Christine.

I remember when I was first able to finally reveal myself to her, that night after her debut of prima donna in Hannibal, and she gladly  
accepted my offer to join me as I stepped through her mirror, hand extended with the utmost hope. I remember when we first touched, her soft and delicate fingers entwining with mine like gnarled brambles. Her hands were so warm. The memory makes my heart soar.

But it pained me to realise that I had begun stalking the Vicomte even more than Christine.

The love I felt for her was still there, but just as the flame of a candle that has burned all of the way down, I feared it would  
extinguish itself in time. I remember clearly that when she unmasked me, that lying little harlot, she had the nerve to scream, flee at the sight of my face. Utter repulsion. I know that look anywhere. I knew she loved me, loved me enough that she could eventually grow accustomed to this face. But now, I was seriously having my doubts.  
I was so tangled in these emotions.

Fleeting thoughts of the Vicomte accepting this face, this monster I had become, made me sigh an exasperated breath.  
Hope. I was not familiar with it.

But...maybe, just maybe, another man would understand. Females were much too delicate, much too innocent, to be subject to the darkness, the horror that I am.

Men were conditioned to deal with these things, right?

In my mind, the scene played over and over in my head. I slid the mirror back, reaching into Christine's room, beckoning for her to come to me. Grasping for her, we touched, and I looked at the fingers that tangled themselves with my own.

It was not Christine's hand. It was too large. The fingers too long. My eyes trailed up the wrist, arm, shoulder that connected themselves to it, and then to the face.

It was the Vicomte's.

No. I silently chastised myself, a curse rolling off my tongue. I shut my eyes tight in retaliation, thinking it would also shut out the mental image as well.

I told myself in false hopes that if I shut my eyes tight enough, it would shut out the whole world, too.

I was repulsed at the thoughts and scenes that danced before me. I reminded myself that they were wrong, so very wrong. And then I wanted more.

The image of the Vicomte still burned in my mind, and I basked in its wake. I tried to soak up as much as I could, terrified that it would disappear, leave me forever just as everything else in my life did, last fleeting traces dissipating like little wispy vapors.

The though crossed my mind; why couldn't I have them both?

I made my way from my bed over to the shore of the lake. I gazed out into its infinite blackness that I had grown so accustomed to, that I had grown to. I allowed the softest, most halfhearted sigh to escape my lips.

I knew I had to choose. I grew restless.

The Vicomte or Christine?

The vicomte or Christine?

The answer was right there, staring me in the face, yet I still questioned my own infalliable logic.  
I was becoming frantic. I couldn't answer it.

I didn't want to answer it, yet in my mind, I already had.

I paced in my home so hard and so often I wore holes in the bottom of my shoes.  
Back. Forth. Back. Forth. To the edge of the lake. Back to the organ.  
My fleeting thoughts faltered between Christine and the Vicomte.  
I knew I could not have both. I tripped on my thoughts like stones as I paced.

He reminded me so much of my Christine.

My heart and head threatened to explode.

He reminded me so much of my Christine.


	4. Neurosis

**Some Author's Notes:**

I am in the UK! Arrived here safely on Sunday. I've been working on other vignettes, slowly, but surely. As I said, updating will be slow (probably just a vignette a week), and I'll be in Wales come Monday. Not sure if I'll have internet there.

Anyhoo, thank you everybody for the reviews and follows! I hope this vignette is up to your expectations. Enjoy.

* * *

Weeks had passed.  
I could not get him out of my head.  
The Vicomte was all I thought about now.

Every so often, I got the urge to drive a nail into my skull. There were plenty laying around the eastern wing of the Opera Populaire. They were used for large props and flies and were bigger than their conventional counterparts. Roughly seven centimetres in length, they would be perfect. Maybe then the constant pressure and prodding from my subconscious would cease, and I would finally be let some peace of mind.

I had dreams of doing so. I could just imagine finally being able to rest from the unceasing torment. I wanted serenity so badly, but knew I would always be burning in this perpetual hell. The nail was sorely tempting.

But I did nothing of that nature. And with that, within the confines of my mind, the torment simply continued; voices called to me, told me, beckoned me to go to him.

I found myself curled against my organ, a book clutched in my hands.  
I didn't know why I was on the floor or even why I was even holding a book.  
I was constantly looking for ways to distract myself though, so this would suffice.

Baudelaire's "Les Fleurs Du mal."My fingers glided over the dusted cover. I thumbed through its leaves, stopping at a random vignette.

"Le Revenant".

"The ghost".

I smirked. How fitting.  
I would read this one.

"Like angels fierce and tawny-eyed,  
Back to your chamber I will glide,  
And noiselessly into your sight  
Steal with the shadows of the night."

I licked my lips.  
I felt tension between my throat and my chest.  
It felt like I had never read this poem before. This new sudden connection suddenly made sense.

"And I will bring you, brown delight,  
Kisses as cold as lunar night  
And the caresses of a snake  
Revolving in a grave. At break..."

My breath faltered, I choked.  
Certain images came to mind.  
All of them involving the Vicomte.

"...Of morning in its livid hue,  
You'd find I had bequeathed to you  
An empty place as cold as stone..."

My hands were shaking.  
I asked myself if I should really read the last stanza.  
I did.

"Others by tenderness and ruth  
Would reign over your life and youth,  
But I would rule by fear alone."

The book was across the room before I had even realised what I had done.

I screamed.  
I huddled against the organ. My arms found their way around my knees.  
I sat like a child, weeping.  
Fear was the last thing I wanted from the Vicomte. He would love me.  
I had been feared all of my life.  
Even Christine had shied away, repulsed when she saw what lied behind the mask. A hole was bored into my heart by the turning of her head, the aversion of her eyes, and had left me drained and emptied. When she had did so, I had clenched my chest in pain, doubled over, feeling the life trickle out of me in little droplets.

This sudden torrent of emotion had left me terriffied. It was not an emotion I had been acquainted with in a very long time.

It hadn't realised I was panting. I could feel my face flush.  
I knew, at that very moment, that what I was feeling was most definitely an infatuation.  
I couldn't deny it any longer. I was running from a part of who I was.  
I was the Opera Ghost. The Phantom. I was well aware that I was myserious, strange, seductive.  
This darkness was what I was. And, naturally, I was attracted to beings of light.  
As Lucifer lamented his fall from grace, I did too. I had fallen long, long ago, but this Vicomte-Raoul-suddenly became the image of salvation in my mind. He had to be mine. He belonged to me. He was my deliverance.

I sat for a long time in silence.  
I reflected on just how scarily similar I was to the Ghost in the poem.  
I refused to believe it.

A part of me had died with the last passage. The words still lingered in my head.  
I spoke them to myself in a sing-song fashion.

I would rule by Fear alone.

I would rule by Fear alone.

The words penetrated my mind, shook me down to my core. My composure lay in tatters.  
I smiled. I had no reason to be doing so, nor did I know why, but the sudden urge to do so had taken hold of me.  
I didn't bother stopping myself.

"fear..."

I found myself mouthing the word silently to myself, the undeformed corner of my mouth crooking into a grin. I made a dangerous realisation. My heart threatened to burst through my ribcage. Everything made sense now. I steepled my fingers in contemplation as I leaned back against the organ and laughed silently to the audience in my head.

"...can turn to love".


End file.
